“I’ll get ’em,” Rosenblatt offered.
“O.K., but don’t get between me and him.”
The D.A. retrieved the papers and studied them. “U.S.Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. All in order,” he sighed.
Lambert’s sigh was considerably more heartfelt. “Can I put my hands down, please?”
Reluctantly Gilligan nodded, but he did not put away his gun. “Who’s to say he wasn’t hired on as an agent just to croak Carmody?” he demanded.
“Mr. Hoover, my boss, isn’t one of the people Carmody had an interest in. He’s working to get things running on the level again, after the mess Burns made of the Bureau.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” Lambert assured him. “See, Burns used federal agents to run his own detective agency. I wasn’t one of them, I’ve only just joined.”
“Just outta college and still wet behind the ears,” Gilligan muttered, returning his gun to its holster at last. Then he noticed that Pascoli, all ears, was scribbling in a notebook. “Hey, you!”
“Me?” Pascoli said innocently.
“Yeah, you. Whaddaya think you’re doing? You’re not a reporter.”
“No,” said Rosenblatt, “but he’s editor of a news weekly, which isn’t that different. I guess it’s useless to ask you to hand over your notes.”
“Damn right!”
“But we have no more questions for you at present, Mr. Pascoli, and I’m certain you’re anxious to get back to your work.”
Pascoli grinned. “If you say so.” He waved his notebook in a jaunty farewell, which made Gilligan bite through his dead cigar to grit his teeth audibly.
Rosenblatt turned back to Lambert. “All the same,” he said, “I get notified whenever a new federal agent is stationed here, as a courtesy and to prevent mix-ups, and you’re not on the list. If you weren’t after Carmody, what brought you to the ‘Big Apple,’ and to the Flatiron Building just when he was killed?”
Lambert threw an apologetic look at Daisy. “I was tailing Mrs. Fletcher here.”
Rosenblatt and Gilligan swung round to stare at her. The sergeant’s hand hovered over his chest as if he wasn’t sure whether to draw again. “Her?” he asked, incredulous. “The dame’s ‘wanted’? Geez, she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
“No, no,” Lambert sputtered, “just to protect her. Mr. Hoover was told by an English cop, a Superintendent Stork, that Mrs. Fletcher has a habit of landing herself in trouble.”
“Superintendent Crane,” corrected Daisy. “The rotter! How beastly of him!”
“You know this superintendent bird, ma’am?” said Rosenblatt dryly.
“He’s my husband’s superior in the Metropolitan Police,” Daisy admitted, hoping they would not have heard of the Met.
“Metropolitan … Isn’t that Scotland Yard?” The Deputy D.A. blinked. “Your husband’s a Scotland Yard man?”
“Yes, actually. He’s a Detective Chief Inspector.”
“Geez, Chief Inspector? Whassat in our ranks?” demanded Sergeant Gilligan.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m sure the system is quite different, and in any case he has no official standing here,” Daisy said tactfully.
“Chief Inspector Fletcher is in Washington in his official capacity,” Lambert contradicted her with a certain relish. “He is advising our government.”
“Aw, rats!” said Gilligan.
“In Washington,” Rosenblatt pointed out. “Not here. Mrs. Fletcher, ma’am, I’d be grateful if you could see your way to giving us your evidence now, so that we need not keep you any longer.”
Daisy decided to exploit her newfound advantage. “Would you mind awfully if I finish my sandwich first, Mr. Rosenblatt? I really am frightfully hungry.”
